Hast thou no being than thyself more dear, That ploughs the ocean deep, And when storms sweep The wintry, lowering sky, For whom thou wak'st and weepest? Oh, when thy pangs are deepest, Seek then the covenant ark of prayer; For He that slumbereth not is there-- His ear is open to thy cry. Oh, then, on prayerless bed Lay not thy thoughtless head. Arouse thee, weary soul, nor yield to slumber, Till in communion blest With the elect ye rest-- Those souls of countless numbers; And with them raise The note of praise, Reaching from earth to heaven-- Chosen, redeemed, forgiven; So lay thy happy head, Prayer-crowned, on blessed bed. MARGARET MERCER. * * * * * PRAYER AND REPENTANCE. FROM "HAMLET," ACT III. SC. 3. _The King_. O, my offence is rank, it smells to heaven; It hath the primal eldest curse upon 't, A brother's murder. Pray can I not, Though inclination be as sharp as will: My stronger guilt defeats my strong intent; And, like a man to double business bound, I stand in pause where I shall first begin, And both neglect. What if this cursèd hand Were thicker than itself with brother's blood, Is there not rain enough in the sweet heavens To wash it white as snow? Whereto serves mercy But to confront the visage of offence? And what's in prayer but this twofold force, To be forestalled ere we come to fall, Or pardoned being down? Then I'll look up; My fault is past. But, O, what form of prayer Can serve my turn? "Forgive me my foul murder?" That cannot be: since I am still possessed Of those effects for which I did the murder, My crown, mine own ambition and my queen. May one be pardoned and retain the offence? In the corrupted currents of this world Offence's gilded hand may shove by justice. And oft 't is seen the wicked prize itself Buys out the law: but 't is not so above; There is no shuffling, there the action lies In his true nature; and we ourselves compelled, Even to the teeth and forehead of our faults, To give in evidence. What then? what rests? Try what repentance can: what can it not? Yet what can it when one cannot repent? O wretched state! O bosom black as death! O limèd soul, that, struggling to be free, Art more engaged! Help, angels! Make assay! Bow, stubborn knees; and heart with strings of steel, Be soft as sinews of the new-born babe! All may be well. [_Retires and kneels_.] * * * * * _King (rising)._ My words fly up, my thoughts remain below; Words without thoughts never to heaven go. SHAKESPEARE. * * * * * THE CALIPH AND SATAN. VERSIFIED FROM THOLUCK'S TRANSLATION OUT OF THE PERSIAN. In heavy sleep the Caliph lay, When some one called, "Arise, and pray!"